


Ordinary

by cuneifire (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 04:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19995721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: It wasn’t some grand escapade of romance, or the type of things they’d write legends about.





	Ordinary

It wasn’t some grand escapade of romance, or the type of things they’d write legends about. Nothing like nations’ relationships tended to be- long-winded and filled with bad blood and violence and revenge that got mixed up with sexual desire and codependency. Seychelles had heard those tales before- France and England’s thousand years of hate-you-love-you, England and America’s constant dancing around each other, Russia and America forgetting that sometimes one night stands _do_ have consequences, and far-reaching ones, Canada, never quite able to take his eyes off of France- she could name a million different grand love stories that came up every world meeting she had to drag her heels through. She could tell you that she had a story similar to that- all twisted pain and broken bones and I’ll love you forever, you and only you.

But Seychelles doesn’t have a story like that. There was no one she grew up with, who she bled and bonded with, who would die for her and who she’d die for. The closest she ever got to even a loose resemblance of said figure was France- and god help her, _no._ No matter how many books and stories and beautifully drawn comics she read, there was no one like that in her life.

She met him in a bar, after a world meeting. Iceland, curled up in over himself over a drink, crouched behind Denmark and Norway with a frown.

She’d been bored, and sick of Comoros’ near-constant bitching about Mayotte, and so she’d paced across the room, skirt the colours of the sea bouncing against her ankles, leaned against the counter, tilted her drink, and said something like ‘This is a little dull, isn’t it?’ and he’d laughed, and his eyes had been pretty and purple in a way that she felt very much went with her, and his laugh had been a bit like ice breaking, cool and clear beauty underneath, and she still smiles with the memory of it. He’d wrung his hands over the folds of his pure white shirt some, rolled his eyes about his family _(‘god, tell me about it, have you tried being near France and England in the same room for more than three seconds?’ ‘no, I’m not a masochist’_ and she’d laughed, and he’d laughed, and then comforted her by blaming nearly all of the world’s smaller issues on Denmark), and that right there is somewhere along the lines of what Seychelles would call love.

No epic romance. No grand fight, no spectacular cataclysmic centuries-long pining that finally bursts into intense jubilance. Just him and her, between beaches and volcanoes, his surprise at sand and hers at the snow (he laughed when she had first come to his country, in a flower dress and an old sweater, and then muttered something about ‘really not knowing’ before ushering her his coat). Just his hand in hers, how they fit well but not perfectly, how his eyes light up with her gaze and she can spot him in a room full of faces- just that. It doesn’t need to be complicated, it doesn’t need to be special or heart-wrenching.

They’re ordinary, and that’s precisely how she likes it.


End file.
